


First, Love

by xylodemon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 23:36:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ygritte does want him; she'd be lying if she said otherwise. Jon Snow has strong hands and a full mouth, is handsome enough when his face isn't busy being sullen. His hair is soft where it curls behind his ears, and his rare smiles are as warm and bright as summer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First, Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brytanie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brytanie/gifts).



> For [](http://brytanie.livejournal.com/profile)[**brytanie**](http://brytanie.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://got_exchange.livejournal.com/profile)[**got_exchange**](http://got_exchange.livejournal.com/), Round Three.
> 
> Vague spoilers for _A Storm of Swords_.

Things are done differently on the free side of the Wall. Ygritte tries to explain this to Jon Snow the first night in Skirling Pass, and again after he meets Mance Rayder, but he doesn't seem to get it, frowns at every word she says. She watches him shiver in his new sheepskin cloak, his hands white-knuckled on his reins as they ride south, wonders if he is stupid or stubborn or both.

He isn't like the other kneelers Ygritte has known. She's only met a small handful -- a few crows who've flown down from the Wall, a few smugglers from Skagos who sail their tiny, black-painted boats past the sharp rocks guarding Eastwatch-by-the-Sea -- and those had been hard men, hungry and dirty, shifty looks in their eyes, running from an axe or a noose. Jon Snow might be a bastard where he comes from, but he has a highborn face and a spine stiffer than his sword, can't bend down to lace his boots without tripping over his vows.

"I never stole you," Jon Snow insists any time it comes up, and it comes up quite a bit, because he's shaming her, even if he doesn't know it. A man who steals a woman and doesn't bed her is only looking for a prize, is saying he doesn't need her because he can easily steal another, and Ygritte is better than that, a spearwife, kissed by fire as she is.

It makes her crosser than it should, her temper flaring when Longspear teases her about it, when the corners of Tormund's mouth twitch with wry smiles. Kneelers have strange ideas about fucking; they worry too much about what is and isn't proper, want everything to be tied up in promises and oaths, in maiden's cloaks and queer, seven-sided buildings. Free-folk don't marry the way kneelers do, but marriage is just some words said in front of the gods, and the old gods are everywhere on this side of the Wall, in every rock and weirwood tree, in every pale blue winter rose. 

She supposes it's the stealing part that bothers him so, but that's only because he doesn't know the meaning behind it. A man steals a woman to show that he wants her, to prove he's strong enough to take care of her and the children she might bear him, and Ygritte can't figure how that's any worse than the way kneelers do things, treating their wives like hostages or property, selling their daughters off to strangers as soon as they're old enough to bleed. A woman should have a choice in who she beds; a man who tries to force himself inside a spearwife will get a knife in his ribs as easy as breathing.

Tormund swears that Jon Snow won't have her because his cock's been taken off, that crows get gelded the moment they take their vows, and Ygritte laughs at the hot flush that creeps over his cheeks, at the muscle that slowly tightens in his jaw. He snaps as taut as a bow-string whenever she leans in too close, whenever she curls her fingers in his sleeve or lets her hand brush over his thigh. He can talk about his oaths and his honor until the Long Night comes; it doesn't change the fact that he wants her, at least as much as she wants him.

Ygritte does want him; she'd be lying if she said otherwise. Jon Snow has strong hands and a full mouth, is handsome enough when his face isn't busy being sullen. His hair is soft where it curls behind his ears, and his rare smiles are as warm and bright as summer.

"Might be he doesn't know how," Longspear says, his shoulders hunched as he feeds wood to the cookfire. His breeches are torn, wet with snow, and his elbows make sharp angles where they rest on his knees. "Might be he knows he'll only make a mess on your thigh."

She cuffs Longspear in the shoulder for that, digs her fingers into his ribs, but she can't help but laugh about it, a sound so loud and bright that Jon Snow looks over and frowns. He turns away when she meets his gaze, a dark flush crawling up the back of his neck; she wonders if it burns the other way as well, if it fans over his collarbone and arrows down his chest, decides Longspear likely has the right of it. Jon Snow is anxious around her in a way that says he hasn't been with many women, if he's been with any at all. 

A storm blows in from the Frozen Shore a few days north of the Wall, wind and snow howling down at them from a sky so dark it's nearly black, and Ygritte spreads her furs out beside Jon Snow's, brushes her foot over the length of his shin, lets her thigh slide against his hip. He doesn't say a word when she curls up against his side, doesn't open his eyes, but she doubts he's truly asleep; his breath catches as she wraps her arm around his waist, his muscles jumping and fluttering as she skims her hand over his belly. His jaw is a sharp line in the firelight, tight enough that it tugs at something in her chest, and she presses closer to him, hides a smile in the curve of his shoulder.

She doesn't know why she lies for him. She wants him, would like to stroke her thumb across the well of his lip, kiss the soft skin just below his ear, but she isn't sure she trusts him anymore than Mance does, wouldn't trust him at all if she hadn't watched him kill the Halfhand, and she doesn't think he'll ever really be happy among the free-folk, not unless he stops holding onto his old life with both hands. Jon Snow is a wildling in his heart -- she can see it in his eyes, in the way his shoulders straighten when he reaches for his sword -- but he has buried it too deep, hidden it under all the nonsense he learned at his father's knee.

Ygritte waits until night has fallen before she slips under his furs, the stars all but hidden, the moon a dim glow behind the heavy clouds. He turns toward her slowly, his hand hesitant as it slides over her hip, but he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat when she kisses him, opens his mouth as her tongue nudges at his lips. She guides his hand under her vest and shirts, curls it over her breast, arching into his touch as his thumb brushes over her nipple; she rubs herself against him, a slow, easy roll of her hips, and he drags his mouth over her jaw, nips softly at her neck, buries his face in her hair. 

"Isn't that sweet?" she asks, once he's inside her, hard and hot and perfect. He gasps, his back arching as he twists underneath her, and she slides her hands up his chest, brushes her fingers over the hollow of his throat. "Not so fast, oh, slow, yes, like that."

Jon Snow looks up at her, his mouth open, his eyes wide and dark, and she kisses him, thinks maybe he can be happy here, if he lets the crow inside him die, if he's willing to learn how to _live_.


End file.
